


And We Are In Bed Together, Laughing

by nevernevergirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 20:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13256451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevernevergirl/pseuds/nevernevergirl
Summary: As the second war against Voldemort begins to brew, Remus finds himself contemplating an increasingly warm friendship. Mid-OotP, moments between Remus and Tonks.





	And We Are In Bed Together, Laughing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the rt_morelove Twelfth Night Tales. Pottermore compliant-ish, if you take a very stretched definition of the bit about "increasingly warm friendship" in Remus' bio.

“Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years it was a splendid laugh!”

―Charles Dickens, _A Christmas Carol_

 

 

The first of November arrives in weary, triumphant relief.

 

Of course, Remus has lived through the anniversary of James and Lily’s deaths enough times that the sting of the day is a familiar pain—though Sirius’s presence certainly spins it around a bit. It’s the anticipation that gets him, like he’s bracing for the impact. For weeks, a knot had settled in the pit of his stomach, waiting, _waiting_ for the absolute misery sunk into the firewhiskey he drank to the dulcet tones of Sirius’ grief slamming doors and destroying the second floor library.

 

At any rate—another Halloween, come and gone and lived through, huzzah.

 

It is an objectively dreary day, greyer and colder and damper than average. He ducks his head in response to the stinging wind as he walks down Diagon Alley and lets chill baptise the October out of him.

 

“Lupin?”

 

He hunches his shoulders reflexively in the split second before recognizing her voice. Before he has the time to turn around for a hello, Nymphadora Tonks is next to him with a hand on his arm, smiling too warmly for the day.

 

“Tonks,” he greets, smiling back. He hopes it hasn’t come out a grimace, though the wind is _truly_ brutal and he’s forgotten a scarf, so he supposes she’ll just have to forgive him.

 

“Circe’s tits, it’s cold out,” she grins. Her nose is tinged pink; he _knows_ she can morph it away, has seen her do it with a blush, and he feels fairly certain she just enjoys the aesthetic of it on a day like this. “I can’t believe Molly let you out of the house without a hat. Or scarf. Or hand-knit mittens.”

 

“It was a close call,” he says, mock gravely. “I saw her make a dive for the knitting needles and escaped by the tail of my robes.”

 

“Brave man.” She links her arm with his, steering him in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron. “Come on, we’re going in and splitting chips. And having a pint. It’s been a bloody _day_.”

 

He raises his eyebrows, letting her lead him anyway. “It’s noon, Tonks.”

 

“Oh, shut it, I worked the overnight shift with Dawlish” she sighs, dramatically. “I need a friendly ear to whinge to, if you’re up for the task. Bonus points for supportive dry commentary.”

 

“I’ll see what I can manage.”

 

The warmth of the pub greets him as he lets her march him onward into November.

  
  
  


“What’s your greatest ambition?”

 

“A whole cupboard shelf full of teas.”

 

Tonks nudges him. “You’re not taking this game seriously, Lupin.”

 

“Ah, my mistake. I hadn’t realized this was a _serious_ game.”

 

It isn’t really a game. They’ve been on guard duty for hours now, the mundanity of the task having settled in some time after the fourth patrol. He had made the _grave_ mistake of tossing out a wry _never have I ever broken three tea cups in the course of one meal_ , and had somehow found himself in the middle of an interrogation. He didn’t mind much. There was, of course, little excitement and danger to be had in 90 percent of the reality of spyhood, a disillusioning truth he’d learned the hard way a war and a lifetime ago.

 

If he’s honest with himself, he has to admit he’s struck a coup with Tonks as a partner; an Auror with a sense of humor is a blessing on a night like this.

 

She rolls her eyes and nudges at his leg. “Really, though. Ambition. Go.”

 

“That’s it. I’d like barrels full of tea, and I’d like to be quite particular about it.”

 

“Ah _ha_ , there’s the root of it. Snobbery and pretension. I should have known, a fussy professor type like yourself.”

 

He laughs, nearly startled into it—her humor is familiar to him by now, but the easy, good-natured banter still takes him by surprise.

 

“Oh, yes. I’d be rid of tea bags for good. A nice darjeeling whenever I like. Cup of lapsang souchong, if I’m feeling up for a challenge.”

 

He really _is_ joking along with her, has kept his tone light with the best of intentions, but there’s a truth in it that means he can’t quite nail the smile. She eyes him carefully—observant auror that she is.

 

He’s not sure what she’ll see. He’s not upset, really, especially not with her. She’s never had a reason to consider the terrible expense of a decent cup of tea when one was terribly, incredibly unemployable. He is, however, a bit disappointed with himself; he would quite like to be able to manage a wholly pleasant conversation for once.

 

“I don’t know what I expected,” she says, matching her tone to his. He takes a brief moment to marvel at how remarkable adept she is at reading the room. “Tea. Honestly. You’re 80 years old, I swear.”

 

He takes the proffered grace with a thankful smile. There’s pity there too, but he doesn’t think she’ll linger on it.

 

“What’s yours, then?” he asks, treading back into calmer waters. “Your greatest ambition, I mean.”

 

“It was to become an Auror,” she says, promptly.

 

“Job well done, then.”

 

She grins. “Yes. Guess that leaves me without an ambition, though.”

 

“I think you may be allowed more than one a lifetime.”

 

She bites her lip. “You’ll think I’m being a bit stupid,” she starts, carefully.

 

“I doubt it.” He takes a turn in nudging her now; it’s a bit awkward on him, stilted and unsure, but she nudges back, and they engage, absently, in a brief, amiable scuffle of elbows.

 

“It feels like I haven’t had a chance to get my grip on all of this, you know?” she blurts. She’s pulled back just slightly to turn to him, and she speaks to him like she’s in the mood for a proper chat. “I’ve wanted to be an Auror since I was at Hogwarts, and I’ve focused on that for so long. And then I did it, and I hardly had the chance to make a mess of my cubicle before—well. This.”

 

“It’s a lot to take in,” he says, quietly.

 

“I’m very young, you mean,” she says. There’s the slightest edge to her voice, and he frowns, shaking his head.

 

“No, that isn’t what I mean,” he says, easily. This he can do: banter and teasing are the language of an old and foreign land he used to visit when he was small. He remembers the words, but they feel heavy and clumsy on his tongue. Insecurity and doubt, on the other hand, are cities he’s traveled well. “I _was_ very young, last time. I’d just turned 18. Dumbledore asked us to join the Order right after our exams seventh year.”

 

“Merlin.”

 

“I hadn’t many ambitions at the time,” he says, evenly. “But this changes how you look at things. You’re more focused, but the goalposts are vague at best.”

 

“Defeat You-Know-Who,” she quips. “Stay alive.”

 

“Exactly,” he shoots her a grin. “That’s not being young at all, I think. I’d argue it’s the opposite.”

 

Her lips curl ever so slightly upward.

 

“Thank you, Professor Lupin,” she says, mock-solemnly.

 

“Anytime, Auror Tonks.”

  
  
  


“Wotcher,” Tonks murmurs, sitting down next to him in a familiar scramble of legs and arm and wand. He carefully cups his thermos of tea in his hands, shielding it until she’s settled. “I’m not too late, am I? Bloody paperwork.”

 

“Not at all. I only apparated in myself a few minutes ago,” he says, pleasantly. They’re stationed just outside Malfoy Manor for the third tediously long night in as many weeks, and it’s awful and wet out, but it could be worse. He had been paired with Mundungus Fletcher after she’d been scheduled for a conflicting Auror shift last Tuesday. _That_ had been an exercise in misery.

 

He’s glad to have her back.

 

“What’re we reading tonight?”

 

“Nothing,” he says, too quickly—she frowns.

 

“You’re lying,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “You had a book in your hand when I got here. You hid it in your robe when you heard me coming,” she says, accusingly.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t the _faintest_ idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“I’m a highly trained Auror, Lupin, I know a _liar_ when I see one, you know.”

 

He sighs. “It’s nothing you would like,” he tries.

 

“Well, that’s awfully presumptive of you. Let me see.”

 

“You wouldn’t like it,” he repeats. She narrows her eyes.

 

“Lupin.”

 

“Tonks,” he mimics.

 

It’s a grave mistake; she lunges.

 

Automatically—nay, _instinctively_ , he grabs for the thermos of tea, righting it even as she tackles him halfway to to the ground and triumphantly pulls the book from his robes.

 

“Ha!” she yelps, victorious.

 

“Good thing I thought to cast a bloody silencing charm before you got here,” he grumbles, childishly. She ignores him, examining the book.

 

“It’s poetry,” she says, grinning. “Remus, you sap.”

 

“I told you, you wouldn’t like it,” he says. He can feel the heat in his cheeks.

 

“No, no, I do,” she says, quickly. “Love poetry. Can’t get enough of it.”

 

He narrows his eyes. “You’re teasing.”

 

“Only a bit,” she shrugs, handing him the book back. “I’ve never read Yeats. Muggle?”

 

He nods, sipping at his tea.

 

“Can we read some, then?”

 

“You want to read poetry?”

 

“I want to read Yeats. Go on then, whichever part you were already at.”

 

He sighs his defeat, setting down the tea and opening the book.. She scoots in closer, leaning in.

 

“Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, enwrought with golden and silver light,” he reads, slowly, his voice low, “The blue and the dim and the dark cloths, of night and light and the half-light—”

 

“I would spread the cloths under your feet,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on the page. “But I, being poor, have only my dreams.”

 

She looks up, and he looks back at her; absurdly, the moment stretching between them feels vast and impossible.

 

“Read the end,” she says, gently. “Please.”

 

He doesn’t have to look. He knows this part.

 

“I have spread my dreams under your feet,” he whispers. “Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”

 

She grins, widely. He grins back.

 

And then—impossibly and absurdly—they kiss. He kisses her, and she kisses him. They are kissing mere yards away from Malfoy Manor with the tea growing cold and the Yeats fallen to the grass.

 

It is possible, he considers, that he is as glad for her company as he is for her competence as a partner.

 

She grins and presses her forehead to his. He grins back.

 

Entirely possible.

  
  
  


Tonks shifts and the bed creaks. She groans a little and buries her head further into the pillow. Remus grins broadly and rubs the sleep from his eyes.

 

“G’morning, Nymphadora,” he murmurs as he turns onto his side and presses a kiss to her bare shoulder. She lifts her head just so off the pillow and levels him with an impressive glare. She kicks a leg out, half-heartedly hitting his shin.

 

“Watch yourself, Lupin. Decent lay or no, using that name’ll cost you dearly.”

 

He scoffs a little at _decent_ , and rolls his eyes, hoping the fondness blooming through his chest isn’t too obvious. “I’ll make tea in a bit?”

 

“Mm. Yes. Not yet, though. Why’s the bloody sun up like that?”

 

“Something or other about the rotation of the earth, I think,” he says, smiling and tracing absent circles on her thigh. “I’m rubbish at Muggle science.”

 

“You’re teasing me an awful lot for this hour of the day. Make yourself useful and find me a spare hour or two, would you?”

 

Childishly, he grins and tugs the thin sheet up over their heads, propping himself up a bit. They’re tented in now, the sun and the outside world muted. She shifts closer, nudging a leg between both of his.

 

“Better, thank you.”

 

“Your feet are very cold, you know,” he says, solemnly.

 

“I do know. You called me _Nymphadora_.”

 

Her tone echoes his, and he bites back an amused grin in favor of a dramatic sigh. “You’re very vengeful in the mornings.”

 

“And you’re in a very good mood in the mornings.” She turns onto her other side, facing him now, and gives him a soft, sleepy look. She brushes her fingers through the stray bits of curl fallen on his forehead. “Looks good on you.”

 

He rolls his eyes.

 

“I am not,” he says, delicately, “in any particular kind of mood.”

 

“Mm,” she shrugs. “You did get laid last night.”

 

“Well, if you’re going to be crass about it.”

 

“If I were going to be crass about it, I’d say you got fu--”

 

He claps a hand over her mouth; she licks his hand.

 

“Honestly.” He pulls his hand back, wiping it against the sheets.

 

“What? You didn’t mind a bit of tongue last night,” she grins. He rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around her waist, tugging her closer. The sheet falls on top of them; she makes a face and he kisses the tip of her nose.

 

“Dung started a pool,” she says, hooking her ankle around his. “About us. Snogging, shagging, etcetera.”

 

He raises his eyebrows and tries to find a damn to give. It isn’t easy with her hand on his thigh.

 

“I feel like I should be mortified. I might be, in a hour or so.”

 

“Mmm. Hestia put in fifteen galleons for December, so I’d say she owes us a pint for commision.”

 

“Dumbledore ought to have his head examined,” he says, his tone mild as he traces circles over her hip bone. “Recruiting the lot of us for his war.”

 

“He’s absolutely barmy,” she says, solemnly, lacing their fingers together. “Wicked sense of humor, though, you’ve got to give the old codger that.”

 

Remus hums his agreement, nuzzling against her neck. He watches as she yawns and rubs the sleep out of her eyes, and he tries his damnedest to sort through the early morning fog in his mind for the right words to say how profoundly grateful he is, how incredibly, perversely lucky.

 

“You’re thinking about something,” she murmurs.

 

“Mm. Terrible habit to pick up, I know.”

 

She rolls her eyes, propping herself up on an elbow. “You know what I mean. You’ve gotten pensive and melancholy, and I’ve got a rule about melancholy—”

 

“Nymphadora Tonks has a rule. I’ll alert the Prophet immediately.”

 

She lets her elbow give way, flopping back down next to him with a scowl. “I have a _rule_ ,” she repeats, louder. “No melancholy thoughts before we’ve got caffeine in our systems.”

 

“You do not know what I am thinking,” he says, making a face.

 

“Of course I don’t. You never _say_ what you’re thinking,” she says, sticking out her tongue.

 

He considers this for a long moment and weighs the truth of it. He reaches out to lace his fingers with hers, and she scoots closer, bringing their entwined hands up between their chests.

 

It feels _simple_. He presses his forehead against hers.

 

“I was just thinking—well. Would it be utterly terrible of me to say I’m glad to be your friend?”

 

She raises her eyebrows, presses her lips together in a stifled laugh.

 

“Oh, yes. Just awful.”

 

He feels the heat of embarrassment creep up his neck to the tips of his ears; in retaliation, he pulls his best petulant scowl.

 

“Well. I suppose it is akin to admitting one is fond of masochism,” he says, voice deadpan. Tonks grins wickedly, her free hand reaching out to pinch a bit of skin below his elbow.

 

“No, stop that, go back to the compliments, please,” she says, cheekily. “I’m an excellent pal, do go on.”

 

“Well, you are exceedingly modest, for one,” he says, dryly. She laughs, and he can feel her breath warm against his shoulder.

 

“Really,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean to tease. Well. I did. But I didn’t mean to change the subject. I’d like to know if you’d like to tell me.”

 

He bites his lip, and she kisses his shoulder.

 

“I feel _glad_ for all of this, sometimes,” he says, carefully. “Not that the war’s starting up again, or that there’s a _need_ for the Order—”

 

“But we wouldn’t have met,” she finishes. “You wouldn’t have Sirius again, or the Weasleys, or any of it.”

 

He gives her a grateful smile.

 

“It feels selfish,” he murmurs. “To be grateful for even a part of it. To be—”

 

He pauses as he grasps for the right word. She rolls onto her back and waits for him to speak. The quiet between them is calm and steady. He thinks she understands that he needs room sometimes; or, if there is not understanding, there is at least _knowing_.

 

It’s an overwhelming thought, but a warm one.

 

“It’s just been a rather long time since I’ve had friends,” he says, finally, then pulls a face. “Merlin. What were you saying before, about the melancholy and the caffeine?”

 

“I’ll allow it just this once. I’m glad to be your friend too, you know,” she says, clumsily pushing herself out of bed and fishing for her underwear on the floor. He stretches out lazily into her now empty spot. “With all its perks,” she says, looking back to flash him a cheeky grin.

 

When she leans back down to kiss him, they are both laughing.

  
  
  


“You’ve been washing that same dish for the past five minutes,” Tonks says, leaning against the counter, next to him.

 

“Have I?”

 

“You were washing it when I went to see Emmaline out. You _do_ know you’re a wizard, don’t you?”

 

“They don’t get properly clean with spells, ask Molly,” he says, absently. He does not put down the dish. Tonks watches him.

 

“Meeting went well, don’t you think?”

 

He snorts. “If you ignore Sirius stomping out halfway through, Snape insulting half the table, and Mad-Eye half convinced someone had poisoned the cake.”

 

“Oh, he was fully convinced. He tossed his slice in the bin, but I managed a vanishing spell before Molly could notice.”

 

“Clever of you.”

 

“Always am. Remus?”

 

“Yes, Tonks?”

 

“I’ve been considering it, and I’ve decided I don’t think it’s terrible that you’re happy,” she says, conclusively. He raises his eyebrows. He has the dish still in hand and the water still running.

 

“Are you continuing a conversation we had in bed a week ago?” he asks, amused.

 

“Maybe. Yes. You looked pensive during the meeting, and it reminded me. And we never really finished it.”

 

“In that case, by all means,” he says, ducking his head to hide the upturned corners of his lips.

 

“ _Anyway_ ,” she says, fixing him with a stern look, “I think you’re allowed to be happy, even if the world’s a steaming heap of dragon dung.”

 

He grins. “Poetic.”

 

“I’d have given Yeats a run for his money,” she says, tugging the plate out of his hands and setting it aside. He concedes defeat, shutting off the faucet and wiping his hands against his robes. She shifts in front of him, wrapping her arm around his neck loosely as his own arms settle at her waist.

 

“Are you?” he asks. “Happy, I mean?”

 

“I reckon I’m a bit of everything, sometimes. Human nature, innit?” He rolls his eyes, and she shrugs. “I’m happy right now.”

 

“Yes,” he agrees. “Me too.”


End file.
